


An Unprofaned Part of the Universe

by WhyDoBirdsSingSoGay (ISawYourGhostTonight)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Domestic Fluff, Flashbacks, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Miscommunication, Slow Burn, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), well actually its enemies to friends to lovers back to friends again and back to lovers again
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-02-18 07:37:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21990601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ISawYourGhostTonight/pseuds/WhyDoBirdsSingSoGay
Summary: The Apocalypse has been averted, Crowley and Aziraphale are free from their respective Head Offices and Aziraphale needs a new project now that the Ineffable Plan is over and done with."Anyways, I have a cottage in South Downs...""When are we leaving?"
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 37





	1. Best Friends

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Tom (@greatkingtrash) for beta-ing the first two chapters of this fic ! (you're awesome)
> 
> Title from Walden by Thoreau :  
> "Where I lived was as far off as many a region viewed nightly by astronomers. We are wont to imagine rare and delectable places in some remote and more celestial corner of the system, behind the constellation of Cassiopeia's Chair, far from noise and disturbance. I discovered that my house actually had its site in such a withdrawn, but forever new and unprofaned, part of the universe."
> 
> Here we goooooooooooooo

“To the world”, Crowley said, and he didn't even try to hide his genuine smile behind a sardonic comment.

“To the world”, Aziraphale answered, eyes glinting and searching for Crowley's behind his sunglasses. His heart was bursting with joy, love and hope.

Their glasses clinked and Aziraphale watched as Crowley took his first sip. Even looking at him sitting right there within arm's reach, Aziraphale couldn't quite believe they had made it. They were alive, they were free and they were together. Everything was going to be alright.

As Aziraphale savoured his first taste of champagne, letting the bubbles tingle his tongue, a memory flashed in his mind. He turned to Crowley, smiling, remembering his 1926 trip to France.

“Have I ever told you about the first time I drank champagne?”, he asked, and Crowley looked back at Aziraphale with a small smile. He raised an eyebrow that said “Well, do tell, angel”, even though he remembered Aziraphale's tale perfectly from the first time he'd shared it with him.

°°°°

They retreated to the bookshop after they finished their second bottle of champagne. Crowley tried to convince Aziraphale he could drive them but Aziraphale gave him a stern – although hazy – look, and he gave up. The Ritz was only a frivolous miracle away from the bookshop anyways, and Heaven wouldn't be looking twice at Aziraphale's liberal use of miracles, not now or ever. Aziraphale smiled giddily at the thought, he snapped his fingers, and in an instant, they were in the bookshop's back room.

Crowley lost his glasses and fell back on the antique sofa, his feet dangling from the armrest, and he sighed a small contented sigh. Aziraphale asked if Crowley wanted anything else to drink – he had a very special bottle of wine stored away, gifted to him by Virginia Woolf, no less – but Crowley politely declined.

“I'm the perfect level of drunk.” his tongue clicked loudly on the "k" and it made him giggle. The sound brought a lazy smile on Aziraphale's lips. He was smiling more than he ever remembered smiling in his life.

Upon further inspection, Aziraphale did feel the perfect level of drunk too. His languid body had found his usual spot, nestled in his favourite reading chair. His pleasantly empty head lolled to the side, and his eyes focused on Crowley's figure.

They had spent so many evenings getting blackout drunk (or what would have been a blackout if they didn't bother sobering up before going their separate ways) before the Antichrist had been born. Somewhere in his dazed state, Aziraphale was glad Crowley didn't want to hide behind extreme amounts of alcohol in his company anymore. Actually, thinking about it, Aziraphale couldn't remember the last time Crowley got so drunk he couldn't tell his head from his feet.

But then he did, and the realisation slapped him back to reality. He sat up, eyebrows scrunched in worry. He opened his mouth, waiting for words to come out.

Crowley vaguely noticed something was happening and he looked back at Aziraphale, still sprawled on the sofa. The sudden change in Aziraphale's body language made Crowley wonder if he'd missed something. He looked around, his movements slowed-down by the alcohol gently coursing through his veins. In the meantime, Aziraphale, it seemed, had found the words he wanted to say.

“Crowley I- um…”

Or maybe he hadn't. He shook his head softly and tried again, remembering to properly enunciate.

“When I err... visited you from Heaven, after the shop- well after it... burned.” he couldn't suppress a shudder at the mention of his books burning down, but now wasn't the time to dwell on matters past. “Well, err... well.” He took a deep, grounding breath and got the rest of his thoughts out all at once “You told me your best friend passed away. You said you'd lost your best friend.” Aziraphale remembered the exact words Crowley had used. “And I was just wondering if they were alright now? Did Adam bring them back along with everything else? I do hope they're okay, Crowley. You've already lost so much and- and-”

Crowley was laughing his heart out on the sofa, one leg drawn up to his body, his head thrown back so that the sound of his laughter filled the entire back room. Aziraphale's eyes, which had been full of sadness and worry a second before, were meticulously scanning the whole room in search of what had gotten Crowley in such a state. Had he not been listening?

“Angel!” Crowley managed to croak between two alcohol-infused guffaws. “Aziraphale, I meant you, you bloody idiot!”

Crowley sat up slowly, wiping tears from the corner of his eyes, stray laughs escaping him from time to time. Aziraphale's slowed-down brain struggled to keep up. What was Crowley going on about?

“I'd just been in the bookshop, I thought you'd burned down with it.” he explained, looking at Aziraphale, his smile still huge, but his eyes tender.  
Aziraphale still wasn't getting it, his mouth opened again, then closed. Crowley rolled his eyes and sighed. He was going to have to spell it out for him.

“I assumed Hastur had started it”, Crowley said and he scrunched up his nose. “Hell's fire, absolute annihilation, the whole shebang” he gestured vaguely. “I thought you'd been destroyed in there.”

His smile turned sad for a second, as he remembered how blinding the pain had been. His eyes stayed on Aziraphale, whose mind was slowly catching up. Crowley was slightly more lucid now, he didn't feel as drunk anymore and his senses were almost functioning at full capacity. Which meant he got to witness the realisation down on Aziraphale. The way he looked up from whatever he'd been staring at on the floor to allow his thoughts to gather. The way his eyebrows shot up, almost comically, and his eyes got all round and big. The way a small blush tinted his cheeks and a huge smile found its way on his face. Suddenly, Crowley felt self-conscious, being watched so intently by Aziraphale.

“You mean- “ Aziraphale started in a small, delighted voice. “You mean to say, we're best friends?”

It was Crowley's turn to be confused.

“Well, yeah, angel... What do you think we've been doing here ?” Crowley asked, scoffing. He felt quite smug about knowing something Aziraphale didn't. The sky was blue, water was wet, Aziraphale and Crowley were best friends. Aziraphale really was an idiot sometimes.  
Aziraphale looked positively nervous now, shoulders drawn up tight, fingers fumbling in his lap, eyes looking everywhere in the room except at Crowley. Suddenly, a bigger question entered Crowley's mind and his smugness evaporated faster than.... whatever liquid evaporates really really fast.

“Wait! You didn't know we were best friends?” he shouted.

Aziraphale's nervous, pleading eyes finally landed on him as he tried to explain himself.

“Well, I don't know! After the Arrangement and the 18th century…” his voice had dropped to an almost-whisper and his blush returned. He didn't give himself enough time to dwell on what had happened in the 18th century, and got back to the matter at hand. “And then that dreadful fight about the holy water put quite a damper on things…”

Crowley couldn't help but scoff again at the mention of that particular fight. What Aziraphale had said in Saint James' Park still stung – the word “fraternizing” was still echoing in his mind, if he listened close enough. It reminded him of his least favourite traits in Aziraphale : his tendency to run away from his problems. Cowardice was an ugly look on him.

Aziraphale was too engrossed in his thoughts to notice Crowley's scowl.

“And then everything I said at the bandstand…” Aziraphale was getting fussy, he barely remembered to breathe, his voice was climbing higher and higher as he continued. “And we barely spent any time together sober between the 1970s and the birth of Adam. And I just didn't really know what was happening. I didn't want to assume! And most of all I didn't want Heaven to find out so I just.... wouldn't think about it, that's all!”

Aziraphale's frantic, pained eyes almost got Crowley to walk up to him, take his hand in both of his and declare his undying love, like in the movies. Almost.

Instead, he took a deep breath and tried to calm down. He wasn't going to ruin this, he wasn't going to go too fast again. He wouldn't be able to forgive himself if his eagerness drove Aziraphale away a second time.

Even though he didn't really feel drunk anymore, he knew that his perception was still addled with alcohol, so he decided to go against all the instincts that told him to walk to Aziraphale and lay a friendly hand on his shoulder or on his knee. Instead, he stayed on the sofa, feet firm on the ground.

Unconsciously, he was leaning his entire body towards Aziraphale.

“Aziraphale I-” Crowley's voice cracked. He started again. “Angel, we've always been best friends.” He tried to make his voice and his gaze intense and firm, but also somewhat warm. Or something. He just desperately wanted Aziraphale to get it. To understand, to really, really understand. “Even when we were something.... less.... than friends. And when we were something more than just that. We've always been best friends.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale said softly, almost inaudibly. His shock was evident on his face and Crowley suddenly realized the weight of the words he had just said.

They weren't supposed to say things like that. The sky was blue, water was wet, Aziraphale and Crowley were best friends and most importantly, they never talked about it. About what they were, about their feelings. Feelings were dangerous in a world governed by an all-seeing, all-knowing entity who probably wasn't keen on angels and demons being friends. Speaking those feelings into being was strictly – if implicitly – forbidden. Crowley tried to forget it was the first time in 6000 years he'd spoken so freely about what he felt for Aziraphale. He might just discorporate on the spot if he thought about it for more than a millisecond.

“Well, err... yeah okay. Well.” He got up, trying to look confident and determined. “I'm drunk.” he said, even though he was feeling almost entirely sober now. “Better go. Ta!” He barely looked back at Aziraphale and left the shop.

How the tabled had turned... Now he was the one running away from his problems. He snapped himself out of the street and into his flat, turned on the TV and tried to shut off his brain.

Aziraphale stared at the door all night, willing his mind to comprehend what Crowley had said.

°°°°

Aziraphale was pacing. He had been pacing for the better part of two weeks, ever since the sun rose the day after he dined at the Ritz with Crowley.

He walked along his Bible shelf, hands clasped behind his back, barely looking at the familiar spines. Where could he go from here? Was everything alright in Heaven? He straightened a stack of poetry books. Had Adam actually killed Satan? What would that mean for Hell? And for Crowley? He looked out the window, at the glorious colours the sky took as the sun set. How was he supposed to live with no one telling him what to do? He sighed, defeated. Freedom sounded nice on paper, but getting used to life without rules when one's 6000 years of existence had been dedicated to following them – or making it look like they were followed – was entirely more difficult than Aziraphale had anticipated.

Aziraphale walked down the stairs and set the kettle boiling. What had Crowley been trying to tell him, with all this “best friends” nonsense? 6000 years of history, complicated implicit gestures and hidden meanings, and Crowley suddenly decided to label them something as simple, as mundane as “best friends”?

He looked at the steam escaping the kettle, the twirls it was making in the air around it. He had to do something. Moping around and overthinking wasn't doing him any good. The tiny red dot on the kettled turned off, Aziraphale poured some water in a mug and tried to list his options.

He could pick up a new hobby.

He drowned a tea bag in the mug and added some sugar.

He could find an earthly job.

He stirred so the sugar cubes could dissolve.

He could travel.

He brought the mug to his face and blew on the boiling water to cool it.

Travelling did sound nice. He didn't really want to stay in London, not after everything that had happened.

And then he remembered his cottage.

He set the mug down somewhere and smiled brightly. He knew what he had to do. He even had a plan. He picked up his phone and dialled Crowley's number.

“Hello?” Crowley slurred, sleepy.

“Hello!” Aziraphale was back to his usual peppy self. “With everything that's been happening – Armageddon, my visit to Hell, your visit to Heaven –, I thought I.... well.... we.... deserved some vacation!”

“Uh?”

“You know! Now that we're free and everything, it might be nice to get away from London for a bit, have fun, get some rest.... Whatever it is people do on vacation!” Aziraphale frowned, realising he didn't actually know what a vacation entailed.

“Uh?”

“Anyways, I have a cottage in South Downs. It's not much, really. It's probably really dusty and there's no heating, but the weather has been nice lately. It is summer, after all. And there's a bed there...I think…”

“Angel-” Crowley began, but Aziraphale cut him short. He knew he had to get it all out before his better judgement tried to convince him to stop talking.

“There's a garden too! I'm sure you would enjoy it. You could.... get some sleep. Or yell at some plants. Whatever you do in your free time.”  
Crowley stayed silent. He wasn't sure what Aziraphale was babbling on about.

“So I was thinking of spending some time there. With you. If you're amenable, that is.” Aziraphale chuckled nervously. He was losing his original bravado. “Why not, right?”

“Right…” Crowley repeated, unsure.

“Right! So, you're coming with?” Aziraphale asked, his tone verging on desperate.

“Err... well.” Crowley tried to find reasons not to go but couldn't settle on any. What the hell, right? “Sure. When are we leaving?”


	2. Almost home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley drive to South Downs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm having so much fun writing this !! I hope you'll enjoy reading it :)

Aziraphale hadn't realized how stressful and constricting London had been for him until he could see the horizon in front of him, and nothing but fields and the occasional tree on the side of the road. Crowley's reckless driving didn't feel as dangerous on the smooth, wide highway, and if Aziraphale reminded him every so often about the speed limit, Crowley wouldn't go over 100 miles per hour.

Queen was playing softly in the Bentley, and although his car was basically Crowley's natural habitat, he didn't feel quite at ease. Aziraphale's call from last week was still nagging him, his words playing on a loop in the back of his head. He wasn't quite sure what to make of them. Was inviting him on “vacation” Aziraphale's way to accept they were “best friends”? Crowley was still metaphorically bashing his head against the walls over that stupid soliloquy of his. “We've always been best friends”. Ugh. What an idiot.

Anyways, did people really go on vacation in a secluded mystery cottage with their friends? It sounded pretty... _romantic_ to Crowley. He shook his head, resisting the urge to scoff at himself. 6000 years of doing whatever it was they were doing, and Crowley was still spending entirely too much time questioning every little thing Aziraphale did in an effort to understand what it all _meant_. Pathetic.

They had left the bookshop over half an hour ago, but the drive had been silent except for a few vague pleasantries, remarks about the sunny weather and Aziraphale’s directions. Crowley couldn't take it anymore. The silence wasn't awkward –it rarely was between them– but he needed answers. What was going on in his angel's head?

“So what's the deal with this cottage of yours, anyways?” Crowley asked, feigning disinterest, as if he was only just making conversation.  
“Oh right!” Aziraphale's perky tone clashed with the familiar, annoyed edge Crowley's voice had slipped into. “Well, it's about a mile off Pyecombe, a small village that was built around a nice little church a few hundred years ago.” Aziraphale paused.

He didn't know how much to tell Crowley, so he decided to stick to the facts. Going into details now would probably stir up too many unresolved feelings, which was the very last thing Aziraphale needed, he reminded himself. He was going on this whole trip in a effort to gain some control in his own life, not make it messier than it already was.

“I used to own the land around it.” He began, determined to answer Crowley's question literally. This was about the cottage and nothing else. “Well.... I owned a rather large part of Sussex at that time and-”

“Wait, wait, wait, wait. You _owned_ Sussex?” Crowley glanced at Aziraphale,teasing, eyebrows drawn up in disbelief.

“Not _all_ of it!” Aziraphale answered, half amused, half offended by Crowley's mocking tone. “It was the 6th century, I was a knight of the Table Round.” He explained, smiling softly at the memories.

“6th century....” Crowley pondered. “We met in the 6th century! I was…” He went quiet as he tried to remember what had exactly happened in the 6th century. “Well, I don't remember what I was doing but I had a really cool-looking armour.”

They laughed in unison, because they both knew for a fact that no one –not even Crowley– could make a full suit of armour look cool.

“King Arthur gave me some land in Sussex when I first joined him.” Aziraphale continued, “There wasn't much there : pastures, forests, great expanses of nothing. I got a lot of meadows, some hills and a bit of forest. Just outside the woods, there was this beautiful house Arthur had gotten built for some thing or other…” Aziraphale could still picture it. The white stone, the impressive gate, the way the birds chirped happily in the spring mornings...

Crowley heard the tinge of nostalgia in Aziraphale's voice, and a yearning silence followed his sentence. Aziraphale took a deep breath and Crowley sneaked a look at him, curious. Aziraphale was looking straight forward but a small, almost sad smile had taken over his features. That house had meant a lot to him, evidently.

Over their many years of “friendship”, Crowley and Aziraphale had sometimes lost themselves in memories of long lost places and people. Aziraphale believed it was because he always felt comfortable enough around Crowley to let his mind drift to places he usually avoided thinking about. Nostalgia tended to turn to melancholy when Aziraphale was alone, but Crowley always managed to fend off the menacing shadow of sadness with a snarky comment or an invitation to lunch. Crowley, on the other hand, would let himself long for times past when Aziraphale was around because there was no one else in the world would _get it_ ; who could understand how bittersweet it was to live amongst humans as a basically immortal creature, and how all-consuming a feeling it was to witness time pass on everything but yourself.

Aziraphale took another deep breath, breaking Crowley's silent meandering.

“The house fell apart.” Aziraphale resumed his –strictly factual, he reminded himself– explanation. “The fundations weren't strong enough and the roof collapsed after a particularly wet winter. I honestly forgot about it for a while. At that point I wasn't a knight anymore and I wasn't even sure the land still belonged to me.” Aziraphale chuckled. “Human affairs... Everything changes so quickly.”

Crowley smiled. He knew Aziraphale found change tedious and unnerving, but no matter how painful it sometimes was, it was one of the things Crowley loved most about humanity.

“In any case, in the 13th century, people started building the Pyecombe church, and then a village around it. At the time I tried to visit every church in England, as soon as they were completed. Do you remember?”

Crowley made a non-committal noise but he did remember perfectly. It was a nightmare to get a hold of Aziraphale at the time, he was always lost in the ass end of nowhere to do some christian tourism.

“So off to Pyecombe I went. After I looked at the church –a perfectly nice and well rounded number–, I walked around for a bit, and I found the place where the house had been. There wasn't much left besides the gate, but when I asked to look at the paperwork I found that I still owned the land. That's when I built the cottage. Well, I paid the good people of Pyecombe to build it for me.” Aziraphale finished with a small laugh.

“So you've had it since the 13th century?” Crowley asked.

“Yes. I do try to visit it as often as I can, get some air circulation, miracle the brambles out of the gates, update the protections against vandalism…” Aziraphale said.

So. Now was the time to think carefully about his next words. Crowley didn't want to come off as admonishing, or nosy, but he needed to know more. He needed to cut to the core of why. Why was he following Aziraphale to this cottage he clearly loved but had never mentioned? Why was it so important to him that he kept it a secret for 7 centuries? And why go there now, after everything that had happened?

“So why have you never mentioned it before?” Crowley said a little too harshly, and he winced internally. That sounded way too passive-aggressive. “I mean,” he tried to amend, “we could have put it to good use when... you know... when we needed a place to be together and lay low.”

He cringed. They weren't supposed to mention that time either. What was wrong with him? Suddenly no one was watching them so he transgressed every rule that had kept his and Aziraphale's relationship afloat all those years?

Aziraphale cleared his throat, clearly flustered.

“Well…” Aziraphale sighed and readjusted his bowtie. If he were one to curse he would have called Crowley all sorts of rude things in his head just about now. Him and his endless questions...

Aziraphale needed a believable excuse. He knew he was useless at lying –and more importantly he didn't approve of it.... on paper at least– so he settled on the truth. He just had to avoid the real reason why he'd never told Crowley about the cottage. That wasn't really lying now, was it?

“We already had so many places to meet in and around London…” Eyes still on the road, Crowley could hear Aziraphale shuffling in his seat. He was nervous, he realised. “And it's a dingy old thing, really. As I said, there's no heating or plumbing. I didn't think you'd be comfortable there, so it didn't make much sense telling you about it.”

Aziraphale's voice had gotten a tad squeaky and rushed, a tell-tale sign he was hiding something.

“So why now?” Crowley pushed. He wasn't going to back down now.

What he really wanted to know was what it all meant. What was Aziraphale trying to tell him by inviting him to his mystery cottage he loved so dearly but had never mentioned before?

In the past, he had never let himself ask Aziraphale too many questions. He had quickly understood that the blunt and straight-forward approach wasn't effective on Aziraphale. He suspected it was all these stupid books he read. He knew the power of words, because he experienced them so often and in such a deep manner. Crowley had a theory that Aziraphale was afraid his words would have the same effect on the world as Wilde’s words had on himself. He wouldn't wield words himself, in fear they would blow out of proportion and alert the Almighty of what was going on just under her nose. Aziraphale feared Heaven wouldn't approve of his and Crowley's friendship. Beneath it all, Crowley knew Aziraphale feared it could make him Fall.

But it didn't matter anymore, since they had established that the Almighty didn't really care all that much. Plus, it was Heaven's turn to be afraid of Aziraphale, Crowley remembered.

“Why invite me over now?” Crowley repeated.

“I'm not sure…” Aziraphale frowned. “I felt like getting away from the bookshop, after everything that happened there…” He was speaking almost absent-mindedly, as if he himself was wondering why he was doing it, and speaking uncovered a truth he didn't know he held. “The cottage is as close a home I've got outside of London.”

Crowley tried not to blush. Aziraphale had kept this place secret for centuries. It was somewhere he felt safe, protected against the dangerous games of Heaven, Hell and God. It was a place he loved dearly, a place he almost called home. And he had invited Crowley into it.


	3. The cottage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley discovers the cottage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks and much love to Claire and Lio for giving me all the validation I asked for lol

Crowley wasn't sure what he had been expecting, but it surely wasn't what was in front of him right now. Aziraphale had not been kidding about needing to come down to Pyecombe to miracle the brambles out of the gate. The cottage was roughly 30 meters away from the huge wrought-iron doorway, yet Crowley could barely see the top of the ground floor windows through the thick weeds, bushes and saplings that had grown all over what used to be a garden. The low, redish brick wall that probably ran around Aziraphale's property almost made it look like the Garden of Eden. An oasis of vegetation left to its own devices, to the purity of chaos, protected from the outside world. The luxuriant, tropical plants of Eden had looked way more impressive than this mess of common European weeds, though. Yet, Crowley was smiling.

“Oh…” Aziraphale breathed, coming to stand next to Crowley.

Crowley waved vaguely towards the parked Bentley and the doors locked in a tick. Aziraphale surveyed the situation and sighed.

“It must have been longer than I thought since I last visited....” He said.

Considering how big the saplings were and how dense the vegetation was, Crowley estimated it must have been at least 30 years since someone had taken care of the garden.

Aziraphale looked around them, making sure no one was watching and he turned back to the gate. He snapped his fingers almost petulantly, and the various creepers that had climbed all over the wrought-iron rods vanished. Since the gates opened inwards, Aziraphale had to clean a path from where they were standing in order to come in. The greenery was too bulky to be pressed down by the opening gate. He looked over his shoulder again, nervous to perform miracles in plain sight. Under Crowley's amused gaze, Aziraphale snapped his fingers. The space in front of the gate cleared, and a neat, straight and narrow path appeared in the middle of the green chaos.

Aziraphale opened the gate – which was almost as high as he was – and walked in.

As he approached the wall to follow Aziraphale, Crowley felt something white-hot and spiky attack him from all sides. Stunned, he took a step back and grunted as the feeling faded away. Aziraphale must have blessed the place, he realised.

“Oh, I'm terribly sorry! Are you alright, Crowley?” Aziraphale's concerned tone made Crowley chuckle.

He tried not to think about how positively giddy he must be feeling to chuckle instead of hiss, groan or even roll his eyes at Aziraphale's contrite and anxious expression.

“M'fine, angel.” Crowley said.

Aziraphale rushed to him and fussed about him until he was sure he was alright. Aziraphale then turned around, laid his palm on the brick wall and focussed on the power he had pushed into it years ago, chastising himself for not remembering the blessings would hurt Crowley. He dismantled them gently and felt the protective energy evaporate into thin air.

“I'd forgotten about that.” Aziraphale said in a sorry voice, turning back to Crowley. “I assumed the blessings had faded away, considering how long ago it must have been since I updated them.”

“You really don't remember when's the last time you came down here?” Crowley asked, frowning. Aziraphale's grasp of time – or rather, his lack thereof – always baffled him a little.

Aziraphale stared at nothing behind Crowley, scanning through his recent memories. He knew the last time he was there it was winter and there were cars, because he had gotten (yet another) strong-worded note from Gabriel about his « petty use of miracles » – although to Aziraphale, blessing the village's roads to avoid car crashes due to snow and frost couldn't be considered petty at all. He tried to fish for more hints from his memories but nothing came to him. He looked back at Crowley and shrugged.

“I guess it must have been between the 1960’s and Adam's birth but I'm not sure when exactly.” Aziraphale said amicably, turned around and walked towards the cottage.

Crowley shook his head fondly, and followed him. He was inexplicably in a good mood. The path Aziraphale had cleared was so narrow that branches and weeds grazed his cream coloured suit. Some of the plants were taller than him, and the image of Aziraphale, a tidy white dot in the middle of this beautifully messy chunk of greenery, walking towards the wooden front door of his white stone cottage made for quite a remarkable sight.

It reminded him of the very first time he saw Aziraphale.

  
  


°°°°

  
  


He had come to Eden all the way from Hell a few hours ago and he had found a really nice rock to doze off on. It was in direct sunlight on top of a hill, a few paces from a waterfall. From there, he had a pretty good view of Adam and Eve, who he was supposed to watch and _tempt_ –whatever that meant. Beelzebub had told him about the angels who were supposed to guard the Garden, but so far, Crowley hadn't seen any. He was starting to believe they were watching over the garden from the outside, if they were there at all. It wouldn't have been the first time Beelzebub was wrong about what angels did and didn’t do.

He decided to stay there for a couple more hours, both out of laziness –the sun was delicious on his scales– and because he wanted to make sure no angel was going to come for him the moment he started talking to the humans.

And then he saw him. Wings out, barefoot, flaming sword in hand. The Watcher of the Eastern Gate.

His tongue tasted the air and he lifted his head slowly, trying not to attract his attention. It was the first time he was seeing an angel since his Fall, and this one wasn't like anything he remembered the angels being. Crowley knew corporations to be deceitful, so he forced himself not to be fooled by his apparent softness, his chubby form and fluffy hair. The sword helped.

The angel was walking around, on the other side of the hill from where Adam and Eve were chatting and laughing. At first, Crowley feared he was looking for him, that somehow he'd triggered the angel's divine alarms with his demonic presence. But something was off. The angel wasn't really intent on his surroundings, he wasn't purposefully looking for anything, he was just.... wandering. Looking casually at the trees and the birds, his sword down, almost forgotten, his steps slow and relaxed. He was just having a stroll, Crowley realised. He was probably not even supposed to be inside the Garden! Considering he was the first angel Crowley had seen since he first arrived, a good 6 hours ago, Crowley posited the Watchers were supposed to stand their ground, guarding their assigned gate. Yet, this one was roaming the Garden, enjoying the view.

A white dot in the breathtaking green of the Garden.

  
  


°°°°

  
  


As Aziraphale walked closer and closer to the front door of the cottage, his heart beat faster and his belly filled with warmth. The love and safety he had always felt here, in South Downs, rushed through him once again. He was over the moon with joy.

This time, he remembered to will away the blessings he had put on the house before entering. The cottage was exactly the way he remembered it, and that made him smile a tender smile. The bright summer sun made the wood inside take on beautiful shadows and hues, the silence had a light-hearted, peaceful quality to it that Aziraphale hadn't found anywhere else in the world. The long-lasting miracles Aziraphale had performed to keep the cottage safe and relatively clean made the air smell faintly of rain.

When Crowley got inside, he was shocked at how Aziraphale-like the cottage was. There was no books, no decoration and very little furniture, yet Aizraphale's personality occupied every square foot of the space. In spite his better judgement –that was yelling at him to slow down, to take it easy, to let things happen slowly and gently–, he immediately felt at home.

It had been a while now since Crowley first realised the only places he felt at home in were places Aziraphale had made into his own home. Crowley's flat was more like a hotel room, really. Somewhere to crash at the end of the day and somewhere to store his junk until he needed it. The bookshop, on the other hand, he truly felt comfortable in. It was a place where he felt he belonged, somewhere hidden away from the rest of world where he could enjoy peace and good company. He got the exact same feeling from the slightly dusty hardwood floors and the almost-celestial light coming from the windows. He could see the impressive, forest-like weeds and bushes surrounding the cottage, yet the sun still found its way inside. There was a fireplace on the wall separating the main room to the tiny corridor of a kitchen. An overstuffed reading chair stood proudly near the fireplace, a beautiful persian rug underneath it. It was irrevocably Aziraphale's cottage.

Opening all the small windows to let the warm summer air in the cottage, Aziraphale thought about just how comfortable he felt there. Which in turned made him realise how agitated and unsafe he had felt in the bookshop over the last few months.

The truth was, besides his bookshop, the cottage near the woods had been the place on Earth where Aziraphale had felt the safest and the most at home. He had lived there during the quest for the Holy Grail, when dozens of knights in shining armour sacrificed everything in the name of God. The execution had been lackluster sometimes, and the ramifications not always glorious, but the general sentiment still made Aziraphale's heart stutter, even after everything that had happened in the last few weeks.

6th century England had been a time and place of political and religious prosperity. Progress and peace had been in the air, people had had food in their plates and leaders had had good ideas in their heads. Aziraphale had listened to the birds chirp every spring morning. Life had been wonderful.

And most importantly, life had been well-organised. It was a time when Aziraphale still believed in capital G Good and capital E Evil. Virtue was achievable through benevolent deeds, sins could be forgiven, God was a fatherly, over-seeing figure who pushed humans to become the best they could possibly be. There was order in the world. It had been ever so comforting...

While the bookshop was now intricately linked to Gabriel and Sandalphon's visit, to his accidental discorporation and the overall Armageddon-that-almost-happened, the cottage was first and foremost associated to a time when life had been easy and beautiful, and the outside world had been auspicious and orderly. The bookshop reminded him of everything that felt out of place and scary, but the cottage was reminiscent of a time where everything was okay. Aziraphale was right in wanting to come back here to build himself back up. This was exactly what he needed. Somewhere comfortable and safe where he could process and regroup.

Even though he kept telling himself it was only supposed to be a vacation in his friend's cottage, Crowley was already spotting where house plants would thrive in the cottage. The light was truly magnificent. The cottage wasn't big –although there was a flight of stairs that lead to a second level– but there was a lot of corners and nooks where Crowley knew house plants would look nice in. And there was the garden! So many plants to discover and take care of in there, Crowley thought.

“How long are you planning on staying?” He asked, watching as Aziraphale turned from the window to face him.

Aziraphale looked around the cottage, as if examining the empty walls would help him come up with an answer.

“I don't know, really…” He said. “Until things settle and coming back to London feels comfortable. I think I want to update a bit too... heating and plumbing sound quite nice, after all. And I would like to have a real kitchen, maybe get a bathtub upstairs.... You've always loved baths....” He continued, absentmindedly, still scanning the room with a soft smile on his lips.

Crowley stared at him, eyes wide.

Well. That was going to occupy his every thought for a while.


	4. Earl Grey Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale Remembers and is Soft

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Chloe who indulged me and read through what I was writing to make sure my english wasn't shit. And to Claire, again, who keeps validating me lol u guyz r cool we should be friends idk

It was the height of summer. Early August, according to Aziraphale's calendar he had bought a few weeks back, on his and Crowley's first trip to Brighton. The air was thick and heavy, the light blinding and hot. Aziraphale had asked Crowley to permanently adjust the temperature so it stayed cool and bearable in the poorly insulated cottage.

Aziraphale was spending most of his time reading in the antique horse-hair-stuffed armchair. He had brought a couple suitcases of books with him, but by the second week of their vacation he had already read through them all (and he had even re-read some of his favourites). On one of his walks –he made himself leave the cottage and walk around the village every day as the sun came up to enjoy the warm morning air–, he had noticed that the small building labelled “Library” was unusually open. He had come in and a lovely lady had explained that the library was usually closed during August, as it was entirely volunteer-operated and most people were away on vacation. Aziraphale realised it wasn't as much a library as one of the pub's back room that someone had filled with disparate bookshelves and the most peculiar book collection.

“Well, it's not really a library. At least not an official one.” She'd said politely. “People just bring books they don't want anymore and we store them. Well, that's how it started anyways”. Aziraphale had started browsing, listening to the woman's quiet but enthusiastic ramblings. “Now people tend to bring books they particularly enjoyed reading. They write why they loved it on the first page, some even add their address or their phone number, in case a new reader wants to have a chat!” Aziraphale had smiled at that. Humans truly were brilliant creatures.

Aziraphale had borrowed a significant stack of books from the makeshift library and was making his way through them, trying to figure out what their original owners loved so much about them. It was a particularly lovely experience.

Books were good to keep Aziraphale's mind pleasantly busy. But even if he didn't need to sleep, his corporation couldn't withstand sitting for hours on end in a objectively less than comfortable 400 year old armchair. So he had to stretch his legs every couple of hours, roll his shoulders, take his reading glasses off. He would go to the tiny kitchen, boil some water on the camping stove Crowley had told him to buy in Brighton, and make himself some tea. Cocoa was too much for the summer. Even under Crowley's demonic AC it made Aziraphale feel heavy and uncomfortable. But living in London for so long had convinced Aziraphale that tea was always –always– a good idea.

While waiting for the water to boil his thoughts always tore away from the book he was currently reading and attached on Aziraphale's new.... situation. Heaven wouldn't bully him or Crowley anymore and he didn't feel watched at all times the way he had for thousands of years. It felt strange not looking over his shoulder, not feeling nervous under Heaven's all seeing eyes. It should have been wonderful and freeing. And in a way it was. There had been some times in the past, occasionally years-long stretches, where Heaven (and God Herself, Aziraphale supposed), just left him alone. Aziraphale didn't know why it happened, but it never really felt worth mentioning, especially since it left him a lot of free time to hunt down rare books and enjoy his almost-human life.

But this felt final, like the closing of a chapter. A 6000 years long chapter, at that. Aziraphale was struggling to adjust, to keep on going. Although he could feel the Earth still spinning under his feet if he focused hard enough, he felt as if something huge had altered its course. Aziraphale didn't know how to cope with it.

The water started to bubble, which pulled Aziraphale from his train of thought. He turned off the stove and poured water in two mugs (they were the only dishes Aziraphale had bothered to buy, both because they didn't really need anything else short-term, and because in order to wash them he needed to get water from the well, which was already too much of a hassle with only two mugs, especially under the blazing sun and heavy summer air). What he had in abundance in his kitchen, however, was tea. He picked Lapsang Souchong black tea for Crowley (it was one of his favourites) and added milk and sugar to his own usual Earl Grey.

As he focussed on not spilling, the remainder of his agitated thoughts vanished. He climbed the rickety stairs carefully and quietly and finally made it on the first floor. It was hot and almost damp in the dusty room. Aziraphale could see the framework of the roof despite how little natural light made its way through the two tiny windows. He stepped gingerly on the old hardwood floors, walking to the only furniture in the room: an old bed. It was huge and stuffed with goose feathers. A jumble of fuzzy blankets, thick linen sheets and fluffy pillows surrounded Crowley's sleeping form. Aziraphale laid Crowley's cup of tea delicately on the bedside table, straightened up and finally took his first sip.

No matter how thorough Crowley was with his banishments, dust kept coming back on the first floor. Aziraphale suspected it was because so many of it had accumulated over the centuries: he barely used this room when he visited the cottage, which wasn't that often to begin with. The few rays of sunlight that managed to pierce through the orange tinted darkness revealed the thousands particles of dust swimming in the air. It was mesmerizing. Aziraphale would have spent hours and hours watching them dance and twirl had it not been for Crowley, sprawled amongst the various pillows and blankets.

Crowley had spent most of his time sleeping since they got here. On the first few days he hung around Aziraphale while he read and started working on the garden, but as the sun got hotter he had to retreat inside. Laying on the floor whining for Aziraphale to pay attention to him soon became too boring and uncomfortable. “I'm making up for all the sleeping time I lost since Adam's birth”, Crowley had said. And he seemed content, which in turned made Aziraphale happy. He would come downstairs for a few hours at a time, and him and Aziraphale would chat, drinking wine in mugs, enjoying each other's company. The familiarity of it made Aziraphale particularly glad to have invited Crowley on this vacation.

Just knowing that Crowley was there, sleeping upstairs, calmed Aziraphale down wheneven books couldn't keep hold of his attention. Whenever Aziraphale found his mind reeling and his thoughts churning –Was Satan dead? Had Heaven really backed off? Would demons come knocking on his door someday to take Crowley away again? Was Good and Evil really a thing anymore? Had they ever been real? How was he supposed to live his life without a clear set of rules to abide by (or try and avoid)?–, he would make some tea, bring it up to Crowley and miracle it so it would stay warm until he woke up. The whole ritual brought Aziraphale peace. His entire universe had been turned inside out but Crowley was there, and as long as he stayed with him, he knew he would be alright.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Aziraphale knew he must have looked like a peeping Tom, “a creep”, as Crowley would say. But he couldn't help but stay a watch –“Just a few more minutes”, he'd tell himself– as Crowley slept peacefully. Just long enough for the steady rhythm of his breathing to calm Aziraphale's unsteady thoughts. Aziraphale couldn't suppress a smile as he remembered the first time he had seen Crowley looking this serene, lulled by the quietness of sleep.

°°°°

Crowley had fallen asleep on his side, still basking in Aziraphale's presence. The bed was huge and velvety and the supernatural heat from the miracled fireplace made the room just hot enough for Aziraphale and Crowley to stay naked under the covers. Aziraphale had watched Crowley fall asleep, still dishevelled and blushing from their previous activities. The late afternoon sun was caressing every inch of his skin. Aziraphale counted his freckles as if counting his blessings.

It was 1709, in Saint Petersbourg. Alexander the Great hadn't yet officially made it capital of Russia but that was where he spent most of his time, along with his government officials and most trusted friends. It had been months since Heaven had tasked Aziraphale with a new mission, or even contacted him. So, naturally, he had decided to visit Crowley, remembering he had mentioned Russia during their last few meetings.

He had found him sleep deprived, sad and stressed, wandering in luxurious mansions and great palaces. Crowley hadn't upright told him what was going on with him. Aziraphale's careful questions and Crowley's short answers had given him a general idea of what was making him so distressed, though. A lot of innocent, oppressed, poor people had died in the building of Saint Petersbourg, and for what? Some stone walls and paved roads. Crowley had stopped being angry long ago and he was then struggling with deep feelings of helplessness and devastation. Aziraphale hadn't even dared bring up the ineffable plan, it hadn't been the time for theology.

As he watched Crowley's chest rise and fall in long, deep breaths, he remembered how twitchy he had been only a few hours earlier. Somehow, Aziraphale's company had made him forget his troubles long enough for him to find the rest he so desperately needed. He tried to steer away from Vanity (not that sins meant anything to God, but Aziraphale was a lover of human tradition), but couldn't stop patting himself on the back for helping Crowley feel better, even if it wouldn't amount to anything deeper or long-lasting. At least right then and there, Crowley was at peace.

Aziraphale didn't dare move, in fear of waking Crowley up, so he just watched him. He watched the way the natural light danced on his fiery hair, and highlighted all its different shades of red. He looked at the wrinkles that lined the corner of Crowley's eyes and the middle of his forehead. He synced his breathing with Crowley's and smiled fondly everytime Crowley's stuttered or changed pace, wondering what he might be dreaming about. He took a mental picture of his unguarded, peaceful face, drilling it in his memory so that he was sure never to forget it.

As the sun came down and the moon came up, Aziraphale realised, slowly, just how lucky he was to be here with Crowley. He thought about all the times they had spent together over the years, all the small touches, the kind smiles and the half-meant sarcasm. In the dim glow the fireplace cast in the night, he thought about how Crowley always came back to him, no matter how long they spent apart, and stopped short of thanking the Almighty for putting him in his path. Surely, God wouldn't approve of what was happening here, and Aziraphale didn't want to risk calling out to Her, even in such a small way. She couldn't look down on them when they were like this: so obviously together, so obviously _happy_.

Aziraphale was so grateful it made him tear up a few times. In the eerie, blue-tinged hours of the morning he allowed himself to recall all the things he loved about Crowley, how wonderful a creature he was. When the sun was high in the sky again, Aziraphale was still finding dozens of little things to cherish about Crowley.

Whenever Aziraphale started worrying about being found out like this, in bed with a demon, he would close his eyes and listen to Crowley's breathing, forcing his body to slow down so he could breath alongside him, in and out, in and out...

As the sky was starting to darken again, Crowley shifted and his eyes opened slowly. When he focussed in on Aziraphale's face, a sleepy smile found its way to his lips. Like a particularly cute kitten, Crowley rolled on his stomach and buried his face in the pillow, nuzzling in its plushness, still smiling. It made Aziraphale's heart grow twice its usual size.

“How long have I been out?” Crowley said, his voice gruff and slow with sleep.

“Mmh... I'm not certain” Aziraphale frowned. “Maybe 30 hours? I wasn't counting.”

Crowley bolted upright, looking at the window, then back at Aziraphale with guilt written all over his face. Aziraphale would have done anything to wipe that look away and replace it with the sleepy smile he'd been wearing.

“Oh Satan, I'm so sorry! Why didn't you wake me?”

“You needed to rest, Crowley” Aziraphale said gently, as if walking on eggshells. He wanted Crowley to lay back with him, under the covers. He wanted to stay in this bed with him forever.

“But you don't sleep, what did you do for 30 hours?” Crowley settled down a little, legs crossed, looking down curiously at Aziraphale.

“I looked at you” Aziraphale shrugged. “You looked so tranquil, my dear. I didn't have the heart to wake you.”

Crowley must have seen something in Aziraphale's eyes, or sensed something in his voice. He was about to protest but he closed his mouth and his gaze became both soft and intent, somehow. He took Aziraphale's hand in both of his and brought it to his lips. He kissed his knuckles gently, eyes closed, head down. He looked reverent and regal in the dimness of the room, surrounded by cream linen and red velvet.  
“Come on” Crowley whispered, looking back at Aziraphale, still holding his hand. “Let me show you the most beautiful things this shit hole of a city has to offer.”

°°°°

Looking at Crowley now brought back all the gratefulness he had been feeling in Saint Petersbourg all those years ago. He was almost overwhelmed by how heavy his heart had gotten. He remembered all those times he'd got to see Crowley wake up, he longed for the times he was allowed to reach out and touch his skin.

The thing that hurt Aziraphale the most wasn't that he couldn't enjoy the feeling of Crowley's skin on his, it wasn't even that he couldn't call him “my love” anymore. What made tears fill up his eyes was that it was all his fault. Everything had been going smoothly, but he had to ruin it that day in Saint James' park, when Crowley asked for Holy Water and he refused him.

He would never forgive himself for how cowardly and immature he had been that day. He couldn't even begin to imagine how betrayed and untrustworthy it must have made Crowley feel to be so misjudged. Aziraphale knew Saint James' Park was what ended their…. whatever it was they had back then. And their friendship only survived because Crowley had been kind enough to forget about it all and forgive Aziraphale.

It was always Crowley coming back to him. Aziraphale knew it, had known it for a long time, now. He was the one making the mistakes and Crowley was the one forgiving him. Their Saint Petersbourg escapade was one of the only times he had been the one seeking Crowley out, looking for him, for his company, for his friendship, for the solace he could only find in his arms. Usually, Aziraphale kept to himself, too scared of Heaven's many eyes and ears to act on his desire to see Crowley. But Heaven wasn't an issue anymore, and Aziraphale knew now that God probably didn't care who Her angels were befriending.

Aziraphale's eyes found Crowley's sleeping face again, and looking at his snake tattoo, Aziraphale promised himself he wouldn't make Crowley run after him ever again. It was Aziraphale's turn to do the chasing.


	5. "Rock and Roll"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> im lactose intolerant and this is so cheesy i might just die on the spot

A date. Aziraphale had asked him on a _date_. “A proper one”, he'd said, looking halfway out of his mind with nerves and anticipation in the flickering light of a dozen candles.

Crowley had woken up in the middle of the night and he'd smiled when his sleepy eyes landed on the steaming cup of a tea on the nightstand. He had come down the stairs, sipping carefully, his mind clearing with every taste of the strong, smoked black tea. As soon as Aziraphale heard him, he jolted upright from his chair, his book clattered on the floor and he started flailing his hands around as if he had forgotten how to use them.

In the silence of the car drive to Brighton, the scene kept playing in Crowley's mind. Next to him, Aziraphale looked more nervous than ever. Crowley was pretty sure he had seen him use a minor miracle to stop himself from sweating furiously through his thousands layers of clothes.

The road was shooting under the Bentley at incredible speed, almost matching the pace of Crowley's mind. What the hell were they doing?

Aziraphale had asked him on a date, right there, in the middle of his stupid candles, the battery-operated snorkeling light he used at night to read still hanging on his forehead, blinding Crowley's sensitive eyes. The first time he'd said the word, Crowley was sure he'd misheard him –in spite of Aziraphale's perfect enunciation– or that he was still in a dream –even though he never dreamed. But as Aziraphale got more and more lost in his own explanations, arguments and overall ramblings, Crowley caught the word a few more times. He wasn't making it up: Aziraphale was asking him on a date.

In 6000 years of.... whatever it was they had been doing, not once did any of them utter the word “date”. They didn't go on dates, they tried a new fancy restaurant, they got drunk in the comfortable shadows of Aziraphale's home, they went for long walks in pretty gardens. Dates weren't for them, the word had implications that made them hot under the collar and sick with worry. Fraternizing was enough to get them locked up, tortured, or worse by their respective head offices. Dating would have meant direct death sentence with no trial. Assuming Heaven and Hell even _knew_ what dating meant.

The very idea that Aziraphale had had the courage to use the word “date” in regards to Crowley was astonishing. In fact, it had been enough to leave him speechless for a few minutes. Aziraphale, who was so afraid of words, so aware of their power, had willingly asked Crowley out on date, aloud, using the word multiple times, without once looking at the ceiling to make sure God hadn't heard him. That alone had made Crowley fall for him all over again.

“Crowley, you're going awfully fast, dear”, Aziraphale's small, shaking voice pulled Crowley out of his own head.

He was actually driving so fast the Bentley was groaning and squeaking and the side mirrors looked like they were about to break clean off the car. He slowed down, muttering an apology.

“So, you still haven't told me where we're going” Crowley said after a few minutes, breaking the awkward silence that had settled between them.

“I have! We're going to a rock _and_ roll concert in Brighton” Aziraphale smiled, proud of his first date idea.

“Yeah but what's the band?” Crowley asked.

“Oh…” Aziraphale faltered. “I don't know, I'm afraid. The lovely lady from the library told me about it, she just said it was rock _and_ roll music and I thought you would like it.”

“I'm sure I will, angel”, he looked back at him and gave him a quick but genuine smile.

He wanted to tell Aziraphale he'd even listen to dubstep if it meant spending time with him. He wanted to say the promise of being in his company was enough for him. But the decades old “You got too fast for me, Crowley” replayed in his head on a loop. He couldn't risk Aziraphale running from him again, not now, with Heaven and Hell off their backs, because it would make coming back to him so much harder without the Arrangement as an excuse.

No. Crowley would take this in stride, just like he took the “vacation” in stride. Since they had avoided Armageddon and Aziraphale realized God probably didn't really care what happened to humans, Crowley felt like he was walking on eggshells around him. Aziraphale was clearly distraught, more than Crowley had ever seen him. He went from being on edge to looking lost and numb. Crowley could tell he was struggling to adjust to their new situation regarding Heaven and Hell. He needed to be more careful than ever, to be exactly what Aziraphale needed him to be, lest he left him again.

Crowley took a deep breath and decided to focus on driving for now. But Aziraphale's presence kept nagging him, pulling his mind away from the road and towards memory lane.

°°°°

Aziraphale's eyes were as bright as his white toga. He was telling him about Titus Livius (he kept calling him Livy, which had Crowley really confused for a while), and how wonderful his books were. Crowley had stopped listening, letting the alcohol in his body and the good company lull him to a comfortable numbness that left him almost as relaxed as the deepest of sleeps.

Instead, he was looking at Aziraphale's animated face, fascinated by the dance of his eyebrows, the shape of his lips, the delight in his eyes. The blazing roman sun looked like a halo behind him, and Crowley caught himself thinking that the curve of his neck was the most beautiful line he'd ever had the chance to behold.

°°°°

Crowley sighed. After 2000 years –and despite the copious amounts of alcohol he had consumed at the time– this particular memory was still crystal clear, as if he'd engraved it in his brain, tattooed it under his skin. He had numerous theories as to why. The one he liked the most was that something about the tableau echoed a long lost memory of Heaven. But the one he kept coming back to was that it was at this moment that Crowley realised he hadn't lost all of his angelic qualities when he Fell. Because what he had been feeling, watching Aziraphale excitedly tell him about a human he admired and cherished, was love.

“Oh look! We're nearing Brighton!” Aziraphale's voice, once again, pulled him out of his own head.

Crowley cleared his throat and buckled up to navigate the busy city. Following Aziraphale's instructions, he tried not to use miracles to avoid running people over and instead made an effort to drive as safely as his demonic nature let him. It helped calm the erratic beatings of his all too human heart.

He couldn't refrain from miracling a free parking spot near the venue, though, but he knew Aziraphale wouldn't have objected to it. When the engine quieted, Crowley suddenly felt ill at ease, and he distantly wondered if deciding to wear an almost see-through sparkly black shirt had been a good idea.

“Well”, Aziraphale sighed with a small smile. “Here we are!” His eyes were searching Crowley's behind his glasses.

Crowley raised a questioning eyebrow and Aziraphale's carefully constructed facade came crumbling down.

“Oh, Crowley, I have no idea what I'm doing.”

That punched a laugh out of Crowley. Aziraphale frowned, watching him laugh.

“Well, don't make fun of me!” He whined.

“I'm not! I'm not!” Crowley said, fond. “This is just a concert, right?”

A small silence fell on them, and they both knew this was definitely not just a concert.

“Let's go, angel”, Crowley said softly.

They climbed out of the car and followed the herds of edgy teenagers into the venue. As soon as Crowley's eyes adjusted to the darkness and he spotted the name of the band inscribed on the bass drum he snorted.

“So. Cigarettes After Sex, huh, angel?” He smirked as Aziraphale blushed an adorable shade of pink. “Besides, I'm pretty sure they're not really 'rock _and_ roll'.”

Aziraphale didn't catch the mocking tone Crowley's voice had taken on the last words.

“Oh, so you know them, then?” Aziraphale turned to him, eyes hopeful.

“Nah, not really. Just look around you: teenagers with colourful hair, cuffed jeans and dark circles. This is what alt rock looks like, angel.”

Crowley did his best to ignore the frowns and glances they were getting from the young people around them. Aziraphale, on the other hand, was getting increasingly nervous and kept smoothing out his perfectly pressed suit. Crowley tried to find something to say, something that would be both reassuring enough but not too forward. The truth was, he thought Aziraphale looked great in his old fashioned, stuffy suit, not matter how weird and out of place it looked in this room full of trendy 21st century humans.

He raked his mind for something to say, but he felt himself starting to overthink. _You go too fast for me, Crowley_. He decided to cut the crap, stepped closer to Aziraphale and took one of his twitchy hands in his. Aziraphale's head whipped to the side, eyes wide and questioning. Crowley smiled and easy smile. It's okay, angel, he thought. You're alright.

Somehow, the reassurance must have translated in the tilt of his head, or Aziraphale managed to read his eyes despite his sunglasses, because he took a deep breath, nodded slightly and stopped fussing with his other hand.

Finally, the dimmed lights completely turned off and the band came onstage. Aziraphale's hand stayed in Crowley's as slow music filled the room.

Live music had always been one of Crowley's favourite human inventions. The energy was always so rich and electric in concerts, and the knowledge you were in a room full of people with whom you had this one small –yet enormous– thing in common was almost overwhelming.

Crowley started to feel something warm and all encompassing downing on him, over the familiar rush of excitement and passion live music brought him. Aziraphale kept glancing at him, with a smile, as if checking to see if Crowley was having a good time. He would sometimes squeeze his hand or brush his shoulder against his. At one point, he even brought Crowley's knuckles to his lips and kissed them softly.

Loved. That's what it was. Crowley was feeling loved. He almost barked out a surprised laugh at the realization. It had been so long since Aziraphale had let him feel his affection and admiration, and Crowley hadn't realized how much he'd missed it. The familiar prickling deep in his stomach, the fast rhythm of his heart, the pure serotonin pulsing through his veins. He almost felt drunk with it.

Next to him, Aziraphale could see how big and colourful Crowley's own love was getting. It was so thick and potent he could almost taste it. Crowley was always going around with an aura of love tingling around him. It was usually a product of listening to his favourite music or admiring his favourite pieces of art, and always unfortunately dimmed by his demonically enhanced anger, sadness or boredom. But throughout the years, Aziraphale had noticed Crowley's love growing steadily, taking on shimmers or colour, getting stronger and more durable, as if it was slowly recovering from his Fall. It was at its brightest when he was around art or Aziraphale, but since Saint James Park, the aura had retorted back to its washed out, almost hollow original state. It had made Aziraphale so sad he could have cried.

But real tears filled his vision when he saw Crowley's aura tingle and shimmer again as the band started playing a particularly beautiful song.

 _Your lips, my lips_ _  
_ _Apocalypse_ _  
_ _Your lips, my lips_ _  
_ _Apocalypse_ _  
_ _Go and sneak us through the rivers_ _  
_ _Flood is rising up on your knees_ _  
_ _Oh, please_   
_Come out and haunt me, I know you want me_ _  
Come out and haunt me_

Aziraphale chuckled, almost in disbelief. Crowley was finding things to love again. Crowley looked at him, smiling bright, eyes crinkling at the corners. He looked giddy, and the purity of his joy made Aziraphale's heart stutter. He would have given anything for Crowley to look this happy for the rest of eternity.

Crowley resisted the urge to reach out and kiss Aziraphale. Right here, right there. _Your lips, my lips, Apocalypse._

_You go too fast for me, Crowley._

He shook his head. He refused to let himself feel sad, even for a second. He squeezed Aziraphale's hand, basked in the love he felt coming from everywhere: from Aziraphale, from within him, from the music, from the humans.

It was a good first date.


	6. Alarmed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> trouble in paradise.... also forearms content

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've been busy with life and school and moving hence the slow updates but i'm still having so much fun writing this !!!

As the unbearable heat of August gave way to a cool breeze and mild temperatures, Crowley stopped spending so much time sleeping and basking in the sun-baked bedroom and slowly made his way to the vast garden. On the first few days, his ventures outside consisted mainly of trying to walk through the bulk of weeds, saplings and bushes. Aziraphale would regularly see the top of his head through the windows as he sat in his reading chair, or hear him swear and curse some poor plant that hadn’t had the good sense of getting out of his way.

At some point, Crowley started pulling weeds out silently in between his pacing rounds, and slowly the garden thinned out. Aziraphale found a dingy old wooden stool that he miracled into a slightly more comfortable and reliable chair so he could read outside while Crowley gardened and muttered threats under his breath. Aziraphale spent more time watching him than he did reading, and Crowley pretended to be annoyed at Aziraphale’s smirks and jokes.

Every day, as the temperatures dropped steadily and the sky lost its blue hues to take on greyer ones, the garden stopped looking like a young and wild forest and started looking more and more like an actual backyard. Crowley stopped wearing thin cotton sweaters with the sleeves rolled up -to Aziraphale’s chagrin- in favour of season-appropriate outside clothes.

On a very early Tuesday morning, Aziraphale almost spilled his hot cocoa on the pile of blankets he was buried under when he felt a tell-tale zapping on the back of his neck. It was the alarm he’d miracled around the bookshop, warning him someone with ill-intent had tried to break in. Crowley felt something shift in the air almost instantly and rushed to Aziraphale, his hands still clutching clumps of mud.

“Are you okay?”

Aziraphale looked up at him and nodded absent-mindedly.

“I need to go to London and check on the shop.” He said, matter-of-factly. He knew that whoever had tried to get in the shop hadn’t succeeded, the alarm had told him so. But he still felt too protective to let it go. He needed to check on his bookshop.

“Okay, let’s go.” Crowley deadpanned, letting go of the mud and already making a move to take off his gardening boots.

“You don’t need to take me, I don’t want you to feel obligated, just becau-”

“I know, angel.” Crowley said sternly, looking up at Aziraphale from where he was changing his shoes. “I _want_ to help.”

  
Aziraphale wanted to protest, already feeling guilty about taking Crowley away from his passion project. That’s what he did best, anyways, wasn’t it? Taking Crowley’s joy away, hurting him, making his life even harder than it already was.

  
Crowley saw Aziraphale’s frown and sad eyes, and rolled his own.

  
“Aziraphale, shut your overthinking brain up and let’s go. I want to be there for you, alright? I couldn’t care less about this garden if it wasn’t yours, anyway.”

  
_You go too fast for me, Crowley_. He’d done it again. Spoke too fast, spoke before thinking of the weight of his own words.

Aziraphale’s shock gave way to a blush, and suddenly it seemed like he couldn’t look at Crowley anymore. A small smile played on his lips, almost bashful. Crowley breathed out, letting go of the tension between his shoulder blades. They were okay. He shook his head and sorted out his priorities. On top of the list was “making sure Azirapahel was alright”.

“Let’s go, angel.”

°°°°

Being inside the bookshop -the place he had considered his home for centuries- felt odd, somehow. The building was fine, the books were fine, everything was fine. Yet, something was out of place. After 3 or 4 months spent in his cottage, a place that felt out of space-time itself, out of their “Heaven and Hell” reality, it was unsettling to come back to the bookshop, which had been the theater for so many events leading up to the almost-Apocalypse.

Crowley was still looking at it with slight bewilderment, and Aziraphale knew he was remembering seeing it burn. He shuddered. After the cocoon-like safety he’d felt in South Downs, coming back here felt like throwing himself back at Heaven’s mercy. Gabriel’s voice echoed in the back of his head, the strong smell of his cologne slapped Aziraphale so hard he thought he’d appeared in the bookshop. But he hadn’t. They were alone, just like promised.

Crowley walked up to him, eyebrows drawn tight with worry. Instead of asking Aziraphale if he was alright -it was evident he wasn’t-, he said :

“Wanna get hammered?”

Aziraphale laughed, loud and surprised, breaking the heavy silence around them. He smiled gratefully and nodded, before following Crowley in the back room.

They found a few decent bottles of wine and a couple of glasses, and very soon they were back to their usual easy-going drunk selves. Crowley was sprawled on the sofa, making conversation, while Aziraphale listened half-heartedly with his head thrown back against the high chair. Aziraphale’s body felt pleasantly dull, but even in this physically relaxed state, he was somewhat twitchy.

“I’m sleepy”, Crowley drawled in a sigh.

That got Aziraphale’s full attention: a problem easily solved, finally. He got up and took Crowley’s glass from his limp hand, miracled the wine into water while convincing Crowley to sober up before falling asleep.

“You’ll get a hangover, if you don’t.” Aziraphale pushed, softly.

Crowley groaned but focused and miracled the wine in his system back in its bottle. Aziraphale gave him the glass of water and Crowley downed it, desperate to chase the dry, stale taste of almost-wine from his tongue.

Crowley settled in the sofa, and as soon as Aziraphale covered him with a plush blanket, he fell asleep.

Aziraphale sat back in his chair, looking at Crowley’s chest rise and fall with each breath. The restless feeling wasn’t going anywhere. He was on edge, his muscles drawn tight, his feet firmly planted on the ground. He felt like an animal, ready to bolt, listening for any sound that might indicate a prey was tracking him.

He decided to sober up too, and miracled himself a hot cocoa. There was something wrong here and he couldn’t figure out what. He couldn’t help but compare the gentle, humming quiet in the cottage to the heavy, thick silence in the bookshop. He had the overwhelming urge to look over his shoulder every few seconds.

With his warm mug in hand, he started roaming the shop, touching the spines of his favourite books. He pulled out some of them, the ones that were signed, and just held them for a while. Looking at his books, touching them, holding them close to his chest always made him feel better, it fed something soft and vulnerable deep within him. But tonight, even through the satiated, comfortable feeling of existing around his favourite books, he still felt nervous, on edge. As if, at any moment, the ceiling could fall down on him.

Or worse, Gabriel could apparate down from Heaven.

Aziraphale shuddered and sighed, rubbing his forehead. His heart was simultaneously in his throat, his stomach and his feet. He could feel his heartbeat in his ears and his fingertips. Everything was fine, yet something was very wrong. And he knew it didn’t have anything to do with burglars trying to steal his precious books.

The bookshop wasn’t a safe place for him anymore. He didn’t feel at home there. He felt watched by Heaven, as if Gabriel had set up a magnifying glass in his office and pointed it at his little corner of Soho, waiting until he was vulnerable or distracted to pounce on him, destroy him. And the books. And Crowley.

Aziraphale looked out the window and he saw the sun setting. He had lost track of time, Crowley and he must have spent hours getting drunk before sleep overpowered him. Aziraphale dragged a chair in front of the window and sat in it, watching the sun leave the sky, inviting the moon to take its place.

As he watched the moon getting brighter and brighter, he realised that leaving the bookshop to settle in the cottage had been the first step in abandoning it for good. He didn’t want to let it go, he had tried to resist it then, and he was resisting it now. This had been his home, a place he had spent decades making his own with books and blankets and plush furniture. He had spent so long in his bookshop he didn’t even know if the shop started smelling like him, or if he had started smelling like the shop. With a sad smile, he decided it didn’t much matter: at the end of the day, they smelled the same.

He took a deep breath. The mere thought of leaving the bookshop behind fogged his vision with tears, but the hair on the back of his neck were still standing on end from the overwhelming feeling of being watched. He had completed his collection of books a long time ago, anyways. He wasn’t quite sure he could pour move love into this place, or receive more in return. It was time to face the music.

He got up, wiped his eyes, snapped his fingers and dozens of wooden crates appeared around him.

“Well,” he sighed. “Let’s get packing.”

°°°°

The bright, halo-like light that always seemed to filter through the bookshop window, no matter how gloomy it was outside, yanked Crowley from sleep. With a groan, he turned around to bury his face in the sofa cushion, in hopes of blocking the light. He tried to relax his muscles and will his mind to sleep, but then he heard Aziraphale’s footsteps, and ruffling sounds, and steps again. He sounded like he was going back and forth between two places in the shop. Curiosity cleared his head from the last remnants of sleep and he got up.

He found Aziraphale in his philosophy section, elbow deep in the German shelf. He had taken off his jacket, presumably to preserve it from the dust he was scattering around. He had a greyish streak of it across his right cheek.

“Oh! You’re awake! Good morning, my dear.” Aziraphale smiled at him but he was still rummaging around the half emptied shelf.

“What are you doing ?” Crowley asked, confused.

“Packing!”

“Packing?” Crowley frowned. It was too bright in there, he wished he’d remembered to look for his glasses before looking for Aziraphale like an eager puppy.

Aziraphale sighed and lost some of his bravado. He left the books alone and faced Crowley, who desperately tried not to stare when he realised Aziraphale had rolled up his sleeves to the middle of his forearms.

When he realised Aziraphale was still silent, Crowley repressed the blushing virgin inside him and looked back at Aziraphale. He looked conflicted, eyebrows furrowed, lips set in a thin line and fussy hands fussing about.

“Hey, Aziraphale” Crowley called, gently, desperately trying not to sound worried. “What’s up?”

“I want to move in the cottage.” Aziraphale said quickly, as if trying to get the words out before his overthinking mind caught up with them.

“Okay...” Crowley said, not really sure what the problem was.

“I don’t feel like I belong in this place anymore. The bookshop was my life for so long, but I need to move away from it now. It’s too…”

Hesitation cut him short. He looked around, trying to find the right words. Finally, his eyes settled on Crowley. Aziraphale was thankful for the comfort of Crowley’s eyes. They shone in the morning light. He took a deep breath and his shoulders relaxed. Crowley smiled a small, encouraging smile. Aziraphale could have cried from the thoughtfulness of the gesture. Instead he nodded, and willed himself to keep going.

“So much happened here, Crowley…” Aziraphale sighed, looking pained.

“Yeah…” Crowley agreed, remembering the flames devouring the precious books, and the heart wrenching emptiness he felt when he thought they’d destroyed Aziraphale too.

“I don’t feel at home here anymore. I barely feel safe… Even in the cottage, I’m always worried Heaven and Hell are still watching us, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce. But here it’s- it’s overwhelming. It’s like I’m expecting Gabriel to walk through the door with an army of angels at any moment.”

Crowley fought with every atom of his body to not engulf Aziraphale in a hug so fierce it would make him forget about Heaven and Hell and the world at large.

Aziraphale breathed in a out for a while, working to smooth out the worried lines on his face. He was trying to get himself under control, Crowley realised. He was getting ready to tell him something.

“The cottage has always eluded Heaven’s surveillance, somehow. It’s never been on their radar, but they know this place, they know to look for us in the shop.” Aziraphale’s voice was more confident now, and Crowley saw in his eyes that he’d already taken his decision.

“I need to do this, it’s the right thing to do. I can’t stay in Soho anymore.”

_But I can’t ask you to leave London_ , Aziraphale thought. _You belong in busy cities, you belong in the nightlife, in crowds, in the heart of action and novelty. I can’t take that away from you._

“I hope you’ll keep visiting me, though. It’ll be like a holiday for you!” Aziraphale tried his hardest to sound excited at the prospect of letting Crowley go.

And Crowley tried his hardest not to look hurt. You go too fast for me, Crowley.

“I wouldn’t want to impose…” He mumbled.

“Never! Dear boy, you wouldn’t!” Aziraphale exclaimed, bordering on desperate, but Crowley was retreating back into himself, trying to take another rejection from him with as much dignity as he could muster. “You’re always welcomed in my home, Crowley.”

Crowley looked up at him, and let the sincerity in his eyes nurse the wounds his words had just inflicted.

Aziraphale saw something strange flicker in Crowley’s eyes, something resembling hope. It startled him, and for a few seconds he thought he would throw caution to the wind and ask him right there and then to move in with him. But he stopped himself. He had already taken so much from Crowley over the years, he had hurt him too much to allow himself to be selfish again. He couldn’t ask of Crowley to abandon his life, to abandon a part of him just so he could keep him by his side forever. It wasn’t fair, he kept telling himself. He couldn’t be the cause of any more of Crowley’s suffering.

Aziraphale sill looked sad to Crowley’s eyes, something was off, there was something he wasn’t telling him. But he held onto his last words. _You’re always welcomes in my home, Crowley_. Well, that was definitely a step up from the other one of Aziraphale’s sentence that kept slapping him in the face… He nodded to himself, he was going to take whatever Aziraphale would give him. And an invitation to visit his cottage was good. It was a start.

Crowley snapped and his sunglasses appeared on his face. If Aziraphale was to move out of the bookshop permanently while Crowley stayed in London, the least Crowley could do was delay the move as much as he could to spend as much time as possible with Aziraphale before he left. The familiar _ting_ of a demonic idea echoed in his head.

“Well, if you’re going to move in the cottage you should probably get some plumbing, insolation and electricity installed. The nights are already getting chilly and I know you love your comfort.” Crowley’s voice had taken on his trademark mischievous tone.

Aziraphale frowned at it, from habit. What was Crowley up to?

“Alright…” Aziraphale conceded cautiously. “That might be a good idea.”

“But you know how unstable and tricky architectural miracles are. Real pain in the arse, they are. You should probably get it done the human way. Hire plumbers and-” Crowley gestured vaguely. “House-building people”

Crowley did have a point. The last time Aziraphale tried his hand at remodelling his shop he had to call the fire department. But getting humans to renovate the cottage would delay the move significantly.

“Come on, you know I’m right” Crowley said as he sensed Aziraphale was just on the verge of being tempted. Devilish excitement pumped through Crowley’s veins. Oh, how he’d missed that feeling. “You could go down there for a few days, call up some people, figure out timetables and let them do all the work while you pack up your books.”

Aziraphale looked up at Crowley and squinted at him, trying to see past his words to understand his ulterior motive. He raked his brain but couldn’t find any. Crowley saw resignation set in just before Aziraphale opened his mouth to say: “Well, that does sound like a good plan.”


End file.
